She remained arm’s reach from him as they walked away from the tables. Under her breath, she muttered, “Deacon, is this a real request, or is it, you know, related to why I am here in the first place?”
“A real, bona fide request. All the Silvers are being gathered,” he boasted.
Rem continued to look around as they walked, far enough away that she’d have to yell in order to get Nia’s attention—although Nia diligently watched.
In the faint distance, Rem saw Lothar at Ronan’s table, still in wolf form, the Alpha speaking to him. Then, Lothar moved away and she lost him in the crowd.
She faced ahead, breathing steadier.
As they passed through the greens and maneuvered around tents, Rem eyed what appeared to be a giant pyre in the middle, something that made her stomach uncomfortably churn, having seen those many times with the witches.
She furrowed her brows. "Is that a pyre?"
"I don't know. I don't ask a lot of questions."
"That's a part of the problem," Rem grunted.
"I'd sayyoujust ask too many," he retorted. "You did on the ride to Warden Pack. Wouldn't stop talking."
She shook her head in annoyance, careful with what she said in public while next to him. "I won't apologize for that. Plus, what else was I supposed to do? Talk to mycaptorabout the weather?”
He grinned, looking her way. "That would have beenmuchmore preferred. Oh, we could talk about our favorite things. Like, what’s your favorite food?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Your favorite food. What is it.”
“Pancakes?” she replied, feeling a headache coming on.
“Oh! Those are interesting. Sort of like cornbread,” he said, tucking his hands into his pockets, squaring his shoulders.
“They’renothinglike cornbread, Deacon.”
“Well, they’re both made on those cast iron skillets. Except cornbread is fluffier. Oh, and I like the sweet kind. None of that salty shit.”
Rem’s jaw dropped enough to part her lips, and she mumbled, “What is happening in this conversation…”
“Cheer up, Rem. I’m only making small talk with you.”
She emptily stared around the bustling sea of humans, shifters, and wolves. She didn't know whether or not to laugh, but that entire conversation was also Deacon in a nutshell: purely bizarre and unpredictable.
“Look, I know my brother is difficult, but I'd like to think I can be better than that,” Deacon said genuinely. “I really want to try, alright?”
They moved through the cool grass until they reached a cobblestone road that led to rows of homes lined together. She crossed her arms. "Yeah, because cornbread and pancakes arereallywhat’s at the top of my mind right now.”
"Well, I'd like to talk to you rather than just have you glare at me or be silent. I don’t like silent treatments."
"Yes, wouldn't have wanted you to be uncomfortable, Deacon," she quipped.
He seemed wounded. "No, Iwasuncomfortable. I didn't like what happened," he spoke slowly, carefully glancing around as strangers walked by, "But it was asked of me. And it's good to see you're doing what's asked ofyou. You look happier."
She didn't say anything in response, not seeing the point in replying, especially with how that boiled her blood. Some part of him seemed to genuinely care, and yet, he did what he did to her.
Rem bounced out of the way when a carriage nearly ran her over. The busy streets were filled with carts racketing over uneven stone, people shouting around her, and the clinking of metal from a nearby smith. She became engrossed in the livelihood, imagining showing this to Oliver one day.
An unfamiliar shifter came up to Deacon and started speaking Icelandic. Rem tensed, but when she realized they weren’t speaking an ounce of English, her shoulders relaxed. She could ignore them, and it wasn’t even rude of her. The stranger periodically glanced at her, but Deacon appeared to reprimand the stranger when they stared for too long.
At least he finally didsomethingright.
